A ‘could be fairytale’

I’d been leaving. Piece by piece.

For a while.

Every time you wanted me to not want what I wanted.

I drifted.

I wanted things. Things for myself. Us. You.

And then you told me I was wrong, oh so often.

Looking for feelings in things. When I was not.

I was looking for them in you.

I told you how I was withering. Layer by layer.

You thought it was us, withering.

And so we did. Fade.

I had an inkling of the end.

It crashed in sooner than I thought it would.

So often than not. We did become what we said we won’t.

I said flower. You heard thorn.

You said rain. I heard drought.

We were We. It then turned to Me.

A flip of sides. A flip of our synchronicity.

Oh, it was a lovely tale.

A cast of transient magic.

A storm that weakened as soon as it formed.

An unquenched thirst.

Unfinished poetry.

Spilled paint, on a masterpiece.

In response to Daily Prompt: Inkling


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